


Blame

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Brief Fridget Mention, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, One Shot, Season/Series 05, Vera cries about Joan and Bridget cries about Franky: the thrilling saga, mentions of Joan/Vera, vera's hung up on joan; bridget's hung up on franky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 14:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15709557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera and Bridget have a girl's night in. Too much wine is never a good thing.{ An alternative to 05x08: Think Inside the Box. }





	Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SugarsweetRomantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/gifts).



> Just wanted to write a little gift for my friend, Belle (SugarsweetRomantic), who writes some amazing Wentworth fics. Thanks for spreading joy to the fandom through your work!
> 
> I admit the idea of Vera/Bridget intrigues me.
> 
> Title inspired by Bastille's "Blame." I listened to it on repeat.

 

Resident forensic psychologist Bridget Westfall finds herself on a bender. Sneaking a glass (re: a few) during lunch serves a purpose: a preemptive happy hour to quell the frazzled state of her nerves. Franky’s return to Wentworth has twisted her from the inside out. Coping poorly, her world promises to collapse.

Free from the turquoise butterfly clip, Bridget lets down her mane. It’s shorter these days. Franky loved it long. A bitter pang threatens to cripple her. Her fingers shake free the clumped, golden strands.

A bottle of red in hand casts aside the past. It’s not Shiraz, but Pinot. With her hair freshly tousled, Bridget grants herself entry to Governor Bennett’s office. From behind the desk that swallows her tiny frame, Vera looks up. Her clear bag rests out in the open as a signifier of her desire to flee. To go home.

“Next bottle was on me,” Westfall insists with a charming cant of her head. Her smile plasters itself on a little too tight, as if she’s reassuring herself rather than her dear friend that everything will be all right. "I'd really fancy a drink or two."

For the two of them, a girl’s night has become a common occurrence: they laugh, they talk, they drink. This is how it should be - a solidarity among women.

Vera blinks. The keys to the kingdom fall to the bottom of her bag. She finds her voice, gentle and mild, at the day’s end.

“Oh, um, okay."

“Right then.” Bridget nods, her smile strained.

A tension infects the air: either the stress of the prison slamming the gavel down or something unspoken.

“Just... not my office,” she stresses with a wave of her hand. “We’re here enough, aren’t we?”

Her dear friend agrees. In the car park, they meet. Prior to leaving, Vera texts Jake. Calls off the private night. A nagging feeling – insecurity, perhaps – tells her their fairytale fling is too good to be true.

The braid weaves into a tight bun which gnaws at her scalp. Too many bobby pins inflict their own harm. The pants, too, offer no freedom. Wearing taller heels as Governor, her little soles ache. Ferguson’s worn her down so much that she has tossed out the former parts of herself.

Outside, Bridget waves to her. The white blazer accentuates her rigid, bony shoulders. Her well-tailored outfits compliment her svelte body. A flowing turquoise blouse attracts attention to her collarbones. Vera looks, stares, _regards_. As a punitive measure, she bites her bottom lip. Scrapes it as if it’s sowing season.

Vera drives, Gidge abandons her car. Safety first.

“Let’s not discuss work,” she says at the door, her keys rattle. A zinc alloy mouse dangles from a metal ring.

The blonde respects this request.

Rita’s touch no longer haunts her home. Pieces of herself have found their way inside this sanctuary. There are plants she’s kept alive and paintings, too. Warm, friendly photographs of landscapes decorate the hall. Her sofa is worn, used, but comfortable.

Bridget suspects that Vera is still finding herself. Some people are late bloomers, that’s all.

She saunters in and sets the bottle on the glass coffee table. Her palms fly through the air in a mimicry of defeat.

“How about a bottle opener?”

Shyly, the woman in uniform offers a ghost of a grin. She trusts Bridget, she does. In a private place, that stern façade falls. Governor Bennett becomes Vera Bennett in the blink of an eye.

“One moment,” she calls out from the kitchen. She shakes off the blazer and hangs it up. The bun becomes a ponytail, loose and frizzy to accompany the bundle of nerves that forms her character.

Bridget falls back onto the sofa with a laugh, fingers splayed. The couch flinches from the sudden movement.

I’m not interrupting anything with Jake, am I?” She doesn’t mean to impose, to intrude, but these questions come with the job. Curiosity might as well be another bone in her body.

Jake isn’t here. His body doesn’t occupy this redecorated space.

Silence falls like a velvet curtain. It remains that way for several minutes until Vera returns in a loose, baggy t-shirt that hides her figure. She sets two glasses down and uncorks the bottle. The aroma is enough to make them salivate.

“No.” Vera smiles thinly. Her teeth scrape across her bottom lip.

“Vera, you don’t have to pretend with me,” she insists, the lines on her pretty face welling together.

In the presence of another woman, Vera feels bland. Demure. Insignificant. It’s happened before. Meg, Joan, and now Bridget. She could never describe her feelings: cagey things that they were. The envy from spying Bridget with Doyle simmers and fades. It’s been months though it feels like an eternity. 

“It’s an unnecessary conversation. I’m more concerned about _you_.”

Her hands busy themselves by pouring two glasses. Full. Dionysus would be proud. They toast to their shared misery.

“I’m fine,” the sapphic psychologist lies through her teeth with a radiant smile. She’s a mess, her chopped bob’s ruffled. She sips heavily from her glass: two, steady gulps warm her empty stomach.

At first, they talk about nothing. They talk about the little things. The wine sluggishly takes a toll. One by one, Bridget’s fingers drum against the arm rest. Sustained by fermented grapes, she laughs. This is their sacrament to share and behold.

“Vera,” Bridget starts with a laugh. It all becomes too serious too soon. “Have you ever considered counseling for yourself?”

“Oh,” she says after swallowing a hearty gulp of wine. “I, um, no. I’d rather not discuss this.”

Always, she hesitates. Dawdles. Fumbles. The Governor deflects. So, it’s forgotten. Forgiven.

A measure of trust goes into effect. Bridget feels guilty so she testifies to the one woman court. Maintaining level eye contact, her lips strain. Vera sips quietly, lashes fluttering, attractive in the dim light of her mopey home.

“We couldn’t keep our distance,” she confesses. "Franky and I."

It hurt far too much to be kept apart.

An idle finger traces the stem. A pang of jealousy cramps her stomach. She doesn’t understand why, but a part of her does: Bridget had – **has** – what Vera _never_ could with Joan.

“I’m sorry. Just blame me, Vera,” she drones on. It hurts Vera to see her confidant bent out of shape.

The mousy brunette sips her pinot. They should have let the red aerate a bit. Her button nose wiggles, sniffles.

“I won’t, I _can’t_ ,” Vera insists, albeit awkwardly. In a crisis like this, she doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t some Code Blue.

“Thank you,” Bridget replies in earnest, her hand offering a reassuring squeeze to Governor Bennett’s upper thigh. Like a warm summer breeze, Bridget sways through her life.

She gulps.

People are dysfunctional. It’s taken Vera forty-three years to have this revelation.

“It’s my fault. I fucked everything up,” the blonde persists after placing her glass on the table. Sinatra blues fall to the carpet.

“Don’t,” Vera starts. Her hand falls on top of Bridget’s. “Don’t say that.”        

In a phantom gesture, their knees graze. Each one of them is worn and torn, frayed at the edges, but that’s what Vera likes about Bridget: her transparency. She displays her true self. There’s comfort in patterns.

“Despite everything Ferguson – Joan – had done to me, I still… wanted her to acknowledge me. To want me,” Vera spews it all out, her tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. “Instead, I **became** her.”

Diamond eyes sparkle. Bridget’s smile tightens. She appeals to compassion rather than reason. The bottle’s gone, but her hand remains on top of Vera’s clammy one.

“You will _never_ be her,” she whispers.

Relief swarms her features. Slightly tipsy without having overindulged, one can blame it on the sorrow. Anguish makes for an intoxicating drink. Bridget emits a hollow laugh, sweeping a hand through her hair yet again.

“How can we help others when we can hardly help ourselves?” She wonders aloud.

“I rely on you,” Vera confesses with a reserved shake of her head.

A warm hand upon her shoulder promises confidentiality. They cling to each other as stubbornly as they cling to old memories. Her heart lurches past her rabbit lungs. Leaning forward, she notices how Bridget smells like summer rain and cheap perfume.

Kind, friendly fingers stroke her cheek. Her trembling lips expect the kiss. In her lumpy socks, her toes curl. Even now, for all her naivety, Vera wonders if a budding friendship could blossom into something more.

She tastes of wine and sadness. Vera’s lips are rough, chapped from the nervous gnawing that happens when she thinks no one notices. Closing her eyes, she pretends the blessed kiss is from someone else. It isn’t Jake she dreams about.

With a gasp, after a parting of lips and curled tongue, Bridget recoils. Her knuckles scrape her mouth, rubbing away the last remnants of her lipstick.

“Stay the night,” the Governor makes her request. It’s an invitation to sleep off the wine and the incident.

Self-belief makes all the difference between success and failure. Bridget told her that once. The need to protect someone other than herself comes as a wonderous sensation. Maybe there’s more Joan in her than she first suspected.

“This won’t happen again,” Bridget swears, pledges fealty, with her flushed face pressed in Vera’s lap. She hides her hurt and shame.

“I know,” Vera responds in a hushed voice, the palm of her hand resting on the crown of Bridget’s head.

Once Bridget falls sound asleep, she covers her with a hand-knit, multi-colored blanket (a gaudy thing serves as a creature comfort) and leaves a glass of water on the table. The wreckage is cleaned up so that Vera may return to bed alone.

But she knows that it _might_ happen again: it did with Joan.


End file.
